I'm Still Here
by claimedbydaryl
Summary: Attending their high school reunion, two former best friends are confronted with change-Bucky has a metal arm and Steve is finally able to run ten paces without wheezing-and realise maybe they were thirteen years too late in revealing their feelings for each other.


Ten years later, the gym still smelled faintly of sweat and balled-up socks and the broken dreams of athletically lacking kids. It set Bucky on edge almost instantly, because he remembered in vivid detail what unspeakable torture he had endured on this very stretch of squeak-inducing floor—having to bear witness to Steve fucking Rogers in gym shorts and not being able to touch him.

In high school, Bucky had quickly been labelled as some deadbeat punk—spiking his brown hair into a Mohawk daily, rocking a leather crop top in public and wearing dark eyeliner like it was going out of fashion. Besides his silver-studded, borderline gothic social appearance, he was a track star, secret linguistics expert, and disarming charming when it was required of him. He was broad in the shoulders and liked to pick fights for the hell of it, ready to smoke his way into an early grave rather than make it past sophomore year.

Until Steve Rogers turned up late to gym class and effectively ruined Bucky's life.

Admittedly, the thin, asthmatic and nauseatingly sweet Steve hadn't really made that much of a first impression on Bucky in the first half hour of their acquaintance. A guy who tucked his shirt into his khaki pants and religiously combed his hair every morning and shined his shoes every night, was normally a source of ridicule. But halfway through gym, Bucky had watched as the pint-sized Steve—who probably couldn't weigh more than ninety pounds soaking weight—had stood up to a gang of jocks whose futures were limited to frat parties. They'd been teasing a girl with braces, because for some reason orthodontic care was something to be mocked to them, and Steve had jumped to her defence in seconds, swinging punches and calling them something along the lines of _bigoted assholes_.

He'd snorted a laugh at that, watching in quiet yet concerned contemplation as Steve laid futile punch after punch to the understandably stunned jocks, promising all kinds of hell as he was eventually sent to the nurse with a bloody nose and inhaler clutched to his chest.

Bucky paid close attention to Steve after that, half out of curiosity and half out of a simple-minded amusement. The kid was a riot. He learned Steve excelled at the arts, glimpses of detailed pencil sketches and charcoal drawings in his beloved sketchbook thus confirming his inklings. He always seemed to be scribbling in that old thing, head bent and bird-like shoulders hunched, his small frame dwarfed in the cavernous cafeteria or outside when it wasn't so cold that he'd get sick.

Steve was nice to everyone, teachers and students and everyday people alike. He still used words like _ma'am_ and _sir_ and thanked the lunch lady every day without fail. He held the door open for girls and helped struggling kids with their homework and offered his arm to old ladies who needed to walk across the street and people who tripped in the hallway.

Bucky's brow furrowed when he first saw Steve give his lunch to a kid who never seemed to have his own, even though without food Steve would grow weak over the course of the day and end up at the nurses with one ailment or another—like he did almost twice a week.

No person was this inherently _good_. No one vowed to protect strangers who were being treated unfairly. No one ran track at the expense of a weekend spent in hospital and grinned like an idiot when they finally crossed the finish line.

No one was as kind or generous or noble as Steve Rogers.

Bucky almost didn't want to admit he'd followed Steve home more than once, despite the weird sense of protectiveness he felt for him, or the way his stomach flipped when Steve passed him in the hall or slid into his assigned seat next to him in French and said hello with the greatest smile known to man plastered across his face—Steve never failed to maintain his manners.

But it wasn't until sophomore year drew to a close—with Bucky trailing Steve home at an appropriate distance, glaring at whichever kid sent Steve the wrong kind of look—that he realised his feelings had changed.

All he remembered was Steve dropping to the sidewalk. Cold dread travelled up Bucky's spine—he'd thought Steve had collapsed, that he'd an asthma attack or something else just as debilitating. He raced over to the side of the road, forgetting all pretences of keeping his presence a secret, some figure lurking off in the shadows like a twisted sort of guardian angel in ripped jeans and leather. He had just reached Steve, hand already outstretched and grazing Steve's small shoulder—fitting perfectly into his palm—when he saw the delicate flower surfacing between the fissured cracks of concrete, and the sketchbook open in Steve's lap.

He wasn't in need of immediate medical help; he was drawing a fucking flower.

And there he was—Bucky Barnes, resident punk and all-round asshole—looming over Steve Rogers and damn near ready to scoop him up into his arms, bridal style. Steve turned, alerted to the sudden presence leaning over him, and stopped Bucky's heart with one beautiful smile.

"Hi, Bucky," he said, his voice oddly deep yet still a little wheezy—like he was forever trying to catch his breath. But Bucky didn't notice that—he was still hung up on how his name sounded on Steve's tongue. It rolled off, as effortless as when he spoke foreign languages which belonged to places he never thought he would go, and then he was imagining how it would feel to kiss Steve. How it would feel to put that tongue to use, to brush his fingertips over his delicate hips, or count the ridges of his spine—

"Bucky?" Steve's face was a picture of concern. He straightened to his full height, the top of his head barely grazing the wide berth of Bucky's shoulders. He swallowed in an attempt to wet his throat, almost choking. Bucky noticed that Steve's collar was a little looser than usual, revealing a smooth expanse of pale skin and a collarbone which begged to be sucked on—

"Bucky?" Again, Steve interrupted Bucky's fantasies of cornflower blue eyes and soft blond hair.

"I—" Never in all his life had he felt so inadequate. He knew four languages in total at this point and yet he couldn't spit out more than two words to a guy half his size with a heart eight times as big.

"Are you okay?" He asked, reaching for Bucky's wrist to offer some form of comfort. But Bucky reeled back as if Steve meant to brand him, ignoring the look of confusion and hurt at his violent reaction, and spluttered a dismal excuse before bolting.

He didn't look back—he couldn't. He ran home, feet pounding on the cement ground and over grass and wooden floorboards and into the safety of his room, slamming the door shut behind him. It was then his hand slipped unbidden to the buckle of his belt, and then lower, following a faint stirring of desire. It was then Bucky knew he was lost—when he jerked off to the thought of Steve Rodger's hands on his dick.

Bucky started skipping French to avoid the inevitable looks he knew Steve would give him—the sidelong glances of uncertainty or even—God forbid—fear. He was still forced to attend gym, because he could pass French with his eyes closed and hands bound, assignments appearing mysteriously on the teacher's desk on their due date, but he needed gym to make it through the school year.

In the confined stuffy space of the gym, Bucky was subject to watching Steve dressed shorts and T-shirts, even though he sometimes wore singlets when the weather allowed it. It was torture, plain and simple—he wanted to put his hand on Steve's back whenever he was out of breath, but he also wanted to reach out to cup a smooth thigh in his hand, or run his thumb along the column of his neck. Although Steve wasn't much to look at physically, Bucky couldn't seem to stop doing just that.

Ever since _that day_ his mind was never not occupied with Steve, whether it be sketching an autumn-hued leaf in the park—Bucky tried to forget how cute he looked when he was concentrating, expert hands gliding over the page—or buying a little girl an ice-cream for her after she skinned her knees—Bucky tried to forget how Steve looked with a trickle of the melted confectionary rolling down his chin.

It wasn't until Bucky had spent one of his many afternoons meandering the streets close to school, having skipped another period of French, that he realised his feet had taken him down a path that he was all too familiar with. His gaze angled downwards, he glimpsed the toe of his booted foot skimming a frail flower, springing up between the cracks of concrete like a tendril of life.

Recognition snapped through him—he was following Steve's path home.

He glanced at his phone, his chest rising at his sharp intake of breath—Steve would've been halfway home right now, even if he hadn't passed Bucky yet he would be getting mighty close to doing so—

"Bucky?"

His shoulders tensed at hearing Steve's tenuous question, wanting to run but his feet were rooted to the ground. He hadn't breathed a word to Steve since their fateful encounter, and he didn't plan on doing it again, not until he could go to sleep without his hand in his boxers and Steve's name on his lips.

Bucky felt a light touch on his shoulder and his stomach clenched, eyes squeezed shut. Steve's hesitant fingers lingered for a second before retreating, and Bucky thought he would leave him then. He thought he could leave with his dignity intact. Instead, Steve's hand closed around his jacketed arm and he said, "Can you walk with me?" He spoke softly, gently. "Can you just do that, Buck?"

At his silence, Steve whispered, "Please."

And Bucky steeled his nerves and took one step forward, swearing up and down that this would be the last time. Steve fell into step beside him, and Bucky tried to ignore how his mouth curled at the edges fondly.

"You don't have to talk," Steve said. "I've wanted to ask you to quit loitering behind me like some nutjob and walk with me so long I don't even care if you talk or not. I just want to walk with you for once."

Bucky tried to control his breathing.

They continued like that all the way home, Steve's hand on his arm and Bucky straining with everything he had not to turn his head and drink in the mere sight of Steve like a drowning man needed air. The pair stopped outside Steve's house, and then Bucky's heart was in his throat. His mind was completely and utterly blank, unable to think of something—anything—to say—he wanted to do this each day from here on in, but what if Steve didn't?

What if Steve was just being polite?

What if—

—But it turned out he didn't have to say a damn word, because soon Steve was standing up on his tiptoes to kiss his cheek, the smallest brush of his lips against bare skin, and it was enough to send all Bucky's nerve endings alight.

"Please walk home with me tomorrow," he said, almost shyly. "I'd like that a lot."

And so, every day after school, Bucky would walk beside Steve instead of some way behind him. He didn't have to think about it—it was his favourite part of his miserable life, spending thirty minutes at Steve Rodger's side at the end of the day.

It didn't matter that he could only spare a few intermittent glances at Steve, or he would undoubtedly end up reaching across and branching the space between them, pressing lips to lips without warning. It didn't matter that Bucky would gladly sit beside Steve at a random bus stop or on the roadside curb; waiting as he sketched whatever was in immediate need of drawing in Steve's opinion. It didn't matter than once it had rained so heavily they had to run all the way to Steve's place, Bucky near carrying Steve at one point, and then Bucky was forced inside at Steve's insistent urging instead of making his way home.

He really should've known that after Steve had a quick shower he would be convinced into taking his own. Taking a brief turn under the spray of warm water and waiting—in an enclosed space _with_ Steve—until his mom could drive him home. The bathroom door opened, revealing a room with air that was thick with moisture and steam, and Steve squeezed through the small gap, his hair damp and dressed in comfortable, worn flannel pyjamas.

"I'll get you some clothes to change into," he said, his smile bashful if a little shaky. Bucky was in unfamiliar surroundings, drenched to the bone and teeth chattering, so he was quick to step into the bathroom. The wave of cold rolling through him without relent, he was a little preoccupied with warming up, and misjudged just how close Steve still was to the door.

His shoulder knocked the unprepared Steve backwards, and as soon as Bucky had registered what he'd done his hand had shot out to steady him. At the threshold of the bathroom, the moisture cool on his exposed neck and his fingers ice-cold, Bucky was little feverish. Especially with Steve so close, water dripping off his eyelashes, with his mouth parted and radiating with warmth beneath Bucky's touch. Bucky thought he remembered leaning forward, almost imperceptibly, before he retreated to the inside of the bathroom and back pressed hard to the door. An agonised sigh escaped him, pants even more uncomfortably tight and heart beating at his ribcage.

Freshly showered, when Bucky finally mustered up the courage to leave the safety of the bathroom and face Steve—after an embarrassingly short affair with his hand—he was greeted to the sounds of a horrible hacking cough upon opening the door. Seized with the unmistakable sense of fear, suddenly remembering how Steve fell ill at the smallest drop in temperature, he tracked the sound to what he believed was Steve's bedroom. He flung the door open, his gaze landing on Steve in an instant—at how his thin body jerked and flailed with every cough—and before he knew it his arms was full of a much smaller, softer body.

There was nothing sexual about touching Steve when he was like this—not when he needed Bucky to take care of him, not when he was so vulnerable. Steve fit in his embrace perfectly, head resting just below Bucky's chin, his frail frame curled against Bucky's much broader chest. His hands moved in smaller circles against Steve's back, soothing him, attempting to coax warmth back into his chilled skin.

"You're okay," he whispered without really knowing the reason why, proceeding to kiss the top of Steve's head, wispy-fine hair soft against his lips.

"Bucky," Steve gasped out, nose pushed tightly into the crook of Bucky's neck, arms grasping weakly for purchase at bare skin—he forgot he wasn't wearing a shirt, that Steve was meant to find him one beforehand.

"You're okay, Steve. I'm here."

Time passed in slow succession, Bucky's world narrowing down to the feel of Steve in his arms and his fingers moving over his back, praying for the first time in his life that he would be all right. Slowly, Steve's racking coughs subsided, his chest rising and falling in gentler motions instead of heaves. Bucky's embrace tightened around Steve, not willing to let go just yet. A content, almost comforting feeling washed over him, a restlessness in his chest easing. He smiled at that—at how easy this seemed.

His gaze drifted to the room around him, taking notice of where he was—Steve's bedroom. The furniture was plain and basic—a single bed, desk, chair, cupboard and nightstand. A few model planes hung from the ceiling, even less posters tacked to the wall, but what drew Bucky's attention most were the drawings. The papers were everywhere—ripped from his sketchbook and taped above his desk, to the blank spaces of walls and resting on his nightstand in haphazard stacks.

And then, almost centred exactly above his desk, so it was at eye-level when sitting, was a picture of Bucky. His chest swelled, pulse pounding. Steve must have drawn it when they were sitting on the side of the road, when Bucky thought he was drawing the guitar-strumming buskers playing in front of a rundown store opposite them. In the sketch Bucky's knees were drawn close to his chest, arms looped over them, lips curled into the smallest smile. The view was side-on, every detail—the studs in his ear, his mused hair and the slope of his cheekbone, the frayed cuffs of his jeans and the various buckles of his motorbike boots—catalogued, almost reverential in how much effort Steve had put in the drawing.

"Bucky?" Steve asked softly, nuzzling at his neck.

"Yeah?" He felt like he couldn't breathe.

"Mom's home."

The noise of a car pulling into the driveway confirmed Steve's apparent observations.

"Steve?"

"Hmm?"

"Your mom hasn't met me before," he whispered, still resisting all common sense which screamed at him to just release Steve, "and I'm not wearing a shirt, and we're in your bedroom. Alone."

Steve laughed, the noise ending in a strained wheeze, and in the few swift seconds in which Bucky had no time to react, his mom was at the door, alerted to the sound of her son's soft noises of muffled sickness. Her eyes widened at the sight of them—Bucky half-naked and Steve nearly almost draped over his lap—but then she smiled.

"Bucky, I presume?"

He gulped.

"Steve's told me a lot about you."

"Mom," Steve grumbled in a sort of petulant yet affectionate annoyance, pulling away from Bucky in a movement that damn near ripped his heart out. He felt so much colder already, so much emptier.

"Can I—" he swallowed, unable to do much but flounder, "Can I get a ride home, please?"

Even though Steve reached out, tried to grab hold of Bucky and beg him to stay, he needed to leave. He couldn't deal with this; it was too much and too soon, overwhelming him. Steve's mom was a little hesitant; noticing her son's distress, but she helped Bucky to find some dry clothes and by the time he was ready to leave Steve was fast asleep in his bed. Bucky smiled fondly at the sight of that, hands stilling on the door and happy that Steve was okay, oblivious to Steve's mom watching him from further down the hall, his clothes washed and folded in her hands.

The next two years passed in a somewhat bearable span of time—sidelong glances snuck in-between gaps in conversation, shivers rolling through Bucky whenever his and Steve's hands made accidental contact, the picture on Steve's wall disappearing after the first time Bucky caught a glimpse of it. He never made it a big deal—how he and Steve had suddenly become friends, how they spent lunch together and walked home with their shoulders brushing. Bucky tried to withstand it, knowing he could deal with being Steve's friend first and sort out the mess of his complicated feelings second.

But sometimes it hurt, having to ignore the desperate flush of warmth curling low in his abdomen. It occurred in a handful of times, burning in its intensity—when Bucky allowed himself to spare a cursory at Steve when they changed in the boys locker rooms, or when they settled on Steve's couch for the night, falling asleep on each other's shoulders watching bad action movies, Bucky waking up half-hard with Steve's head in his lap.

He would do it all again, just to know Steve's sunshine-bright smile was directed solely at him.

And, of course, Bucky had to go and fuck it up.

He never expected to be a high school graduate, but with Steve's patient tutoring and any reason to spend the night with their knees touching beneath the desk, Bucky passed all his classes. The ceremony went off without a hitch—Bucky unable to believe how he endured half of the people in his senior year, people like the ridiculous long-haired Scandinavian guy with his ridiculously thick accent and the fifteen-year-old science prodigy with anger management issues. Steve shushed him with beneath a smothered giggle when Bucky voiced his observations—but it was Tony Stark's after party which spelled disaster for them both.

Bucky should've known not to mix booze with a three-year-long crush on his best friend, but he went and did it anyway. Steve had said he wanted to go, something about a proper celebration, so Bucky tagged along.

The party was at full swing when they got to Stark's mansion, a cacophony of alcohol-blurred noise and light and hoots. Bucky was adamant he wouldn't lose Steve in the hormone-fuelled fray, but he disappeared for a moment to grab a drink and half an hour later he seemed to have vanished altogether.

He thought it was the knowledge that Steve was going to art school the next year, and Bucky would be stuck in the same old town without a clue of what to do with his life, that scared him so much. He wanted to spend as much time with Steve as he could, before he would slip from his grasp and some girl would see him—the pure, good soul beneath—and steal his heart. That would hurt him the most, how completely unforgettable he was—Bucky knew it too. He was a two-bit loser with nothing to offer the kindest, noblest, generous man on the planet.

That's how he ended up in one of the many guest bedrooms that weren't already occupied, head hanging in defeat and hot tears pricking his eyes. He didn't want to lose Steve, but he knew he had to; there was no choice in the decision. He deserved better than what he had, and Bucky would rather die than hold Steve back from that fate.

The door opened, shattering the quiet solace of the room.

"Fuck off," he growled.

"Buck, it's me."

He sighed in a drawn-out manner, tilting his head to the side to offer Steve a watery smile. He was already ruining it and hindering his happiness. Steve closed the door softly behind him, concern shining in the blue of his eyes, quickly shortening the space between them.

"What's wrong?" he asked, on his knees before Bucky in an instant.

He would've found it suggestive, the mere sight entertaining his darkest fantasies any another time, but Bucky was far from feeling a fraction of okay to do such a thing. Steve reached out and laid his hand on his knee, the touch a soothing gesture. Bucky held onto it like a lifeline, feeling the hot trickle of tears stream down his face. He was a goner—three years and now he breaks, who would've thought?

"I don't want you to go," he whispered, without meaning to utter the words aloud.

Steve inhaled sharply, shifting closer to him, fingers squeezing into the flesh of his knee. He thought he heard his name, a reverential prayer suspended in the air, but Bucky was unravelling now, pulling on a thread which had been tugged much too many times. Another hand—smaller, kinder—closed over his own.

"It's okay. I promise we'll keep in touch—"

"It's not that!" Bucky cried, wiping furiously at his tears.

"Bucky," Steve spoke in a quiet, serious tone, "can you tell me why you don't want me to go?"

He looked at him through blurred vision, his senses dulled by the buzz of alcohol. Steve sat before him, perfect and sweet and much too good for him, holding his hand as he fell apart.

"Just don't, Steve. I'll never see you again and I can't stand the thought of that."

A breath ghosted over his face, fingers light on his cheek. "Tell me, please."

Bucky looked at Steve—with his blond hair and blue eyes and perfect artists hands. He never wanted to kiss someone more, but he also wanted to make him feel good and safe and protected. He wanted to take care of him when he was sick, rub his back and feed him soup in their bed, but he also wanted to watch Steve come slowly undone under his hands or mouth or touch, to kneel between his legs and watch his eyes go wide with lust and shutter close afterwards.

And for the first time in three years his resolve broke.

Bucky leaned forward and kissed Steve—lips barely touching for more than five seconds, close-mouthed and chaste—and it was sweeter and softer than he ever imagined.

But then he pulled back, chest heaving and guilt already settling low in his stomach. He'd done it—he'd ruined it, tainting Steve's memory of graduation with one stupid kiss. He was leaving for art school in a few months; he didn't need to deal with his best friend crushing on him—he didn't need to deal with feeling uncomfortable whenever he was alone with Bucky, or wondering how to act in previously normal situations. Steve didn't deserve that—not from him of all people, the one person he was supposed to trust and rely on.

Steve stared at him, brow pinched in confusion and shock, fingers at his mouth.

"I'm sorry," Bucky choked out, rushing to the door—needing to escape. He barely registered how his desperate attempt to run had pushed Steve back, his frail body sprawled out on the carpet. He whimpered in pain at the impact—the small, soft sound drove straight through Bucky, punching him right in the chest.

"Bucky?" It was the last time Steve would ever say his name, and that thought alone cleaved Bucky's heart in two.

"I didn't mean too, fuck, I just—" He stilled at the doorway, hand gripped tight around the doorknob and feeling as if he was about to snap in half. Bucky was trembling, fear and anxiety turning his stomach over and his pulse a frantic thud. He didn't look at Steve again, not even for the last time—he just couldn't bear the rejection, the expression of horror and confusion twisting his features.

"I'm sorry, Steve."

"Bucky, wait—"

But he was gone, feet crossing over the carpet and the door closed behind him in a few mere seconds—it was a brief snapshot in time, but it was enough to end the only good thing that remained in Bucky's life. Steve Rogers didn't deserve this—and Bucky Barnes didn't deserve him. But no matter how much he said it to himself, repeating it over and over in his head like mantra; he could never fully erase what he felt for Steve. Not just the trace of lust, but also a fondness—a deep-rooted affection for memories which included the white flash of a smile on the night-darkened couch, a pencil clutched in thin, nimble thin hands, and that unwavering kindness. Steve was too good for whatever mediocrity Bucky could ever offer him.

He didn't see Steve again after that.

Bucky joined the army at the ripe age of eighteen, barely haven taken a step into adulthood and guilt gnawing away at his stomach over Steve. With a decent aim, natural athleticism, and adept academic skill, coupled with an unwavering obedience and loyalty that most young men lacked, he was moulded into the perfect spy in a few short months—a sniper for hire. He was involved in foreign affairs, since he'd been so good with languages—always had been.

He'd covered the basics—French, Mandarin, Portuguese and Spanish—before he was fifteen, and then progressing onto other dialects, mainly of European origin—Russian, German, Spanish, Italian, and some key phrases in a few Scandinavian tongues—and during his time in the Middle East he'd picked up on Arabic.

He'd met Nat only a few years into his military career, in some obscure co-op mission located in the cold depths of the desolate Russian countryside. From what he gleaned through recon, she was a renowned assassin with a hit list longer than her arm and possessed the ability to crush a man's very skull between her thighs. Bucky liked her instantly; despite the fact he was dumb enough to face her in hand-to-hand combat a few too many times. He stuck to long-range skirmishes from then on.

During that particular mission, fingers trembling with lack of feeling and inexperience causing his stomach to twist into knots, Bucky had stumbled into a draughty Russian farmhouse to meet his assigned partner and almost died of shock. It was also the first time he'd seen Clint Barton after graduating senior year, and he was unable to comprehend how he'd been sent on a mission that would surely be labelled 'Top Secret' and stored somewhere it would never be found with a guy he'd swapped jokes and cigarettes with in geometry class. But Bucky hadn't been made aware of the fact Clint had been working undercover with Nat then, or that the Black Widow was a double agent who had also been working in close confidence with S.H.I.E.L.D. for about three years running.

That had been a fun eight months.

He had done a tour in Afghanistan, posing as a regular grunt—a patriotic puppet of the great United States of America. It was a nice reprieve from the danger and secrets of covert S.H.I.E.L.D operations, although he missed the quiet camaraderie he shared in Clint's company and Nat's dry yet oddly endearing snark—and the constant stream of somewhat affectionate banter between the three of them.

But it was in Afghanistan he first heard of Captain America—the shining example of a soldier, with a well-rounded set of morals, a steadfast dedication to his glorious mother country and a patriotic sense of duty. Bucky should've known that Captain America could've been none other than Steve Rogers—the kid he had the biggest, gayest crush on since sophomore year for some inexplicable reason.

He almost hadn't come to this godforsaken high school reunion, not when hadn't seen Steve in the flesh for ten years. Not after he kissed him and left without a word to why, joining the army for no other reason than to escape the sting of rejection. Bucky wasn't ashamed of what he'd done, he was just scared—the stunned, unreadable expression on Steve's face would remain with him forever. Bucky was almost sure he loved Steve then, but he would rather lose that bright ray of sunshine of his life all together then face his polite yet stilted rebuttal.

But Nat had slapped the back of his head when he suggested not attending, and Clint had looked at him with an expression that said he may have just lost all hope in humanity at Bucky's show of pitiful cowardice, so here he was.

The gym was still a little too stuffy, a little too warm, and Bucky's skin was already damp with a fine sheen of sweat. His cybernetic arm—the result of a botched mission he could barely remember the half of—was hidden under a full length jacket sleeve, but he still felt overly bulky. It served as a weapon more than a limb, but it had come in handy—excuse the pun—a number of times over.

Bucky looked around the room as a way to pass the time, having already lost Nat and Clint to spiking the communal punch bowl or something equally as terrifying. He loitered on the edges of the crowd, surrounded in a bubble of mindless small talk, bouncing off walls and filling his head with a useless string of words. He had a wide vantage point of all exit points, close enough to run if necessary, leaning casually on the brick wall as if he wasn't completely on edge.

As if he wasn't terrified to see Steve.

As if he was more confident looking down a scope than facing his former best friend and resident crush.

His gaze first landed on Thor Odinson—a hulking mass of muscle and flowing blond locks, his accent still thick and his voice still booming. Bucky cocked a smile, he was glad to see nothing had changed there—save for Thor's large hand resting on the waist of a small, dark-haired woman next to him. She had intelligent eyes and a quick smile, much too bright for her own good. She was apparently some big, fancy scientist or something—a blinding contrast to the endearing but somewhat oblivious Thor.

Bruce Banner was next—and if you could call any full-grown man "sweet" it would be him. He also ended up as some sort of scientist—a physicist, Bucky thought—and his anger management issues were somewhat easier to manage. He was basically a big teddy bear who had been known to break his fair share of noses—most of them Stark's.

That bought his attention to the most loudmouthed individual in the room.

Tony Stark—that motherfucker.

What a tool.

Of course he was some billionaire technological genius, with the unfortunate tendencies of a major asshole. And he still had an ego bigger than the state of New York, despite his somewhat refreshing philanthropist-based opinions and whip-smart quips. A tall, leggy redhead hovered close to Stark, slim and neat compared to her almost scruffy companion, not a single hair out of place and her black dress tailored to her exact body measurements. Bucky had seen her on TV before—Pepper Potts, the entirely competent CEO of Stark's global company and a career woman to the boot—and her impeccable business suave and omnipresent sense of professionalism never ceased to scare him a little.

Women like Pepper Potts should be ruling the world. The thought soon tapered off to Bucky absentmindedly pondering exactly what redeeming qualities she had ever glimpsed in the cold, dead heart of Stark's otherwise empty chest—a girl like her didn't end up with a guy like him for shits and giggles.

And then his gaze slid a little to the left.

And his heart stopped.

After joining the army and gaining considerable muscle mass, Steve Rogers had become the perfect example of the well-mannered, wholesome, all-American war veteran, his military uniform ironed and chest gleaming with an array of medals. He was bigger in Bucky in both breadth and height—he sucked in a gasp at just how much he changed, a little nostalgic at the loss of his perfectly size Steve—but his hair was still combed into a neat part and his blue eyes still shone brightly.

Steve was everything now—just as beautiful inside as he was on the outside.

Bucky wondered how people had been unable to see that before—that Steve was already the best man on this planet when his fingers were stained black with charcoal and he struggled to run ten paces. He looked for the girl who had stolen his heart, someone who had to be thoughtful and giving and charitable to a fault. But he was shocked when a man—tall and dark and handsome, with a wonderful smile to match—appeared at his elbow, handing Steve a drink.

His fingers dug into the flesh of his arms, jealousy rising hard and fast in the back of his throat, choking him. Here he was—Bucky Barnes—in a leather jacket, faded 80s band T-shirt, ripped jeans and thick motorbike boots, horribly underdressed and sullenly mooning over a guy he'd had a crush on for about thirteen years. His dreams had lessened with time, but he still awoke with a painful hardness at the barely coherent images flashing through his mind—Steve writhing underneath him, Steve's lips on Bucky's throat, Steve's hips grinding down in a tight circle against his.

And then Steve looked up, eyes snapping to Bucky's almost instantly. His smile—that same smile, all white teeth and happiness—slipped from his face at the sight of him, and Bucky took it as a hint. He ignored the pit of dread which had torn his insides apart, pushing off the wall and already halfway to the back exit before he felt a hand curl around his wrist.

"Bucky," Steve said in a whisper that was somehow loudest amongst the raucous noise.

"Don't—" Ten years later and he still couldn't speak a word.

"I—"

"It's okay, Steve. You don't need to explain."

His brow furrowed, and Bucky felt odd having to look _up_ at Steve's familiar yet unfamiliar face. Steve was still too close, crowding Bucky in almost, smelling of summer rain and pencil shavings—like the day he had spent curled in Bucky's lap, recovering from a cough and oh so small. His fingers were warm on Bucky's wrist, stronger and thicker but still as deft.

"Explain what?" Steve asked.

He nodded at the man across the room, the one who'd handed him a drink. "Him."

Steve looked back at his plus one, a slow smile—much too intimate—curving his lips and Bucky was hit square in the stomach. He felt like they had been ripped apart, laid open and his innards scooped out. He wrenched from Steve's grip, his features schooled into a cold mask and his resolve hardened.

Bucky's former best friend titled his head, his expression puzzled and… hurt. "Buck, Sam's my—"

"Like I said, you really don't need to explain it to me. You're not any of my business anymore."

His mouth parted, inhaling sharply at Bucky' comment—like it had knocked the very air out of him. Bucky thought he'd yell, maybe accuse him of taking advantage of him, maybe leave him, but he didn't. Instead, Steve said, "I never wanted you to leave." The admission hurt him more than losing his arm, somehow. "I wanted you to stay—I had plans to find a college closer to you Bucky, so we wouldn't be so far apart. Even when I had nothing I still had you."

Bucky—a trained spy and sometimes jokingly referred to as a "winter soldier" since he was so cold—had never felt so unsure of himself. He was torn between wanting to kiss Steve and punching his boyfriend in the face, between running and remaining rooted to the spot.

"I—"

Steve beat him to it. "Sam is friend; we were in the same platoon for about four years. I bought him because I didn't want to go to my high school reunion alone," he said. "And I wanted to come here because I was holding onto the smallest glimmer of hope that maybe you'd be here too."

Bucky's heart beat loud and fast, unrelenting in its rhythm. "Why?" he asked, a little desperate.

"Because I—"

But Clint—that complete, utter _asshole_ —decided that now was apparently the right time to breeze in, red solo cups in hand and alcohol sloshing over the rim. "Let me guess," he lowered his normally gruff voice to a conspiring whisper, "this is none other than the infamous Steve?"

Steve managed to break Bucky's intense stare, although his finger slipped from his wrists a few lingering moments later. Bucky felt compelled to hold the wrist close to his chest, to feel the warmth of Steve against his bare skin—it had been so long. Steve looked at Clint with a curious expression, and then promptly started a conversation in _sign language_.

Clint looked as surprised as Bucky felt, placing his drinks on the floor and replying to Steve in a flurry of hand gestures he had never bothered to learn. Steve looked at Bucky once—twice—throughout the silent conversation, his brow pinched and lips tight. He smiled though, so that had to be good—Clint's presence couldn't possibly make this any worse. At least, as good as it could be in conversation with Clint Barton.

Nat appeared at his elbow, silent and serene. "I like him," she said, nodding at Steve.

Bucky acknowledged her fleetingly, but he couldn't take his eyes off Steve just yet.

"So, Bucky Barnes," the guy Steve was with before—Sam—joined in on their little gathering, gliding in with ease. He emanated with that same warmth and inherent kindness as Steve. Sam held his hand out to Bucky and said, "I need to shake the hand of the man who stole Steve Rogers heart."

Steve sputtered a nervous laugh, his hand clamping down heavily on Sam's shoulder and looking about damn near ready to murder him. "Sam," he advised in a carefully moderated tone, "I really don't think you should be speaking aloud this far into the night. We all know how much of a lightweight you are."

Sam was quick to rebuff him: "Come on, Steve, I just wanted to meet your one and only—"

Clint was next: "And I just wanted to have a nice conservation with the man Bucky calls out for in his sleep—"

Nat almost allowed herself to look amused. "Can't you two just kiss already?"

"Guys, please," Bucky begged, his hands up and patience wearing thin, "can me and Steve just have a moment to ourselves?"

All three said assholes looked at him dubiously before nodding their acquiescence, slinking off with their drinks held high and smiles wide. Bucky and Steve both had never loved and hated their friends more. When they were safely out of view Bucky rubbed at the back of his neck and Steve smoothed the lapels of his olive green coat.

"Do you really call out for me in your sleep?" Steve asked suddenly, shocking Bucky with his barefaced approach to the question.

He swallowed, unable to respond—he couldn't admit to that.

Steve tried a different tactic. "Do you really want to know why I came here, Bucky?"

His breath caught. "Yes, I do." He nodded.

"I came here because I wanted to kiss you back."

Bucky was outside in a blink, the words hanging suspended in the air. He made it all the way to the bleachers, crumped wrappers scattered on the ground and the weather crisp. He couldn't handle it—the years of pining over something he'd never have, only to realise maybe Steve had liked him back. That these past ten—even thirteen—years had been a misunderstanding. But again his old fears crept up on him—he was too damaged—and now he was one-armed and scarred all over, no more than a deadbeat with a knack for killing bad people.

"Buck," Steve was there, right behind him, "look at me, please."

"How come you wanted to kiss me?" He whirled around, overwhelmed and little frantic. Bucky hadn't expected this—not in a thousand years. "Why? What did you _possibly_ see in me?"

"What did you see in me?" he countered.

"But you—" He grappled for words. "But you were everything, Steve. You were kind and smart and brave and the best person in the world. I was just some punk in leather who had a long-standing crush on his best friend. You don't have to say you wanted to kiss me back just because I was the only one to actually see you back then."

Steve faltered. "You had a crush on me?"

"Ever since you stood up for that girl in gym, the one with braces."

He took a step closer. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because it was a stupid crush."

"I thought—" Steve looked down at his shoes, reverting to his original shyness. The pose reminded Bucky of the boy he fell in love with, not the man he'd become. "I thought you knew." His gaze flickered upwards—open and vulnerable—and settled on Bucky, pinning him to place.

"Knew what?" He breathed.

"You remember the day it rained and we had to run home to my house?" Steve himself was nervous, having taken another step closer to Bucky. His hands shook by his sides, a tremor rolling through him. "And then I started coughing when you were having a shower?" He was rambling now, a beautiful six-foot, blond-haired mess. "And you came out and tried to warm me up? Do you remember that?"

Bucky nodded, silent.

"I had a picture of you stuck above my desk. I thought you saw it—I thought you knew." He dropped his gaze for a second, bashful and sweet—Bucky started to think that Steve was still the same wonderful person, still uncommonly nice. "I liked you more than I should have before I even spoke to you—all the studs and leather and tight jeans. When you ran across the road and called out my name for the first time I started to crush on you. But I didn't love you until you took care of me when I was sick."

"Steve," Bucky whispered, not even registering the step he took closer to him.

"I wanted to kiss you back so much, but you left me before I got the chance to say so."

"You looked confused."

"I _was_ confused. I had been dreaming about kissing you so long and then you were doing it all of a sudden and I didn't know how to react. I'd never even kissed anyone before you." Steve blushed at the admission. "But you acted like it was some horrible mistake, like you didn't mean to do it. Before I could even begin to work out what was happening you were gone." He stalled for a moment, his eyes downcast for a second before rising to meet Bucky's. "I followed you into the army, it was the only reason I joined."

Bucky's gasp escaped him in a pained rush, his chest constricting. Steve's name was ripped from his lips. He dropped onto his knees, gravel rough against the fabric of his jeans, his head—ready to explode—cradled in his hands. A large hand skimmed over the breadth of his back in a comforting gesture, another body warm and close and familiar to his own.

"You could've just told me."

"You could've done the same thing."

"Steve—" he gasped out, desperate, turning to look at the man beside him. He looked different, stronger, but he was the same person down the core, just bigger. Steve reached out to brush the wetness from his cheekbone, the touch tender. Bucky leaned into his palm, closing his eyes at the sensation—how long had he waited for this?

"Steve," he said again, hoarse and weak—he was so close to breaking.

"Bucky." His smile was fond, soft and kind—everything that made Steve up.

He couldn't remember who'd leaned forward first, with their shoulders pressed together and hearts beating as one. Bucky's gaze flickered down to Steve's lips, watching as his pink tongue darted out to wet the seam—inviting. Steve's hand remained on Bucky's cheek, cupping the side of his face in a gentle hold and drawing him in ever so slightly.

It was perfect and slow—everything their first kiss should've been.

Their lips touched in the briefest whisper of contact, close-mouthed and indulgent. It remained sweet, chaste almost, akin to a constant pressure—a reaffirmation of something more. Over the past thirteen years Bucky had the time and suppressed emotion to fantasise every situation possible, but this surpassed it all.

He had imagined kneeling before Steve, watching him through open, heavy-lidded eyes and his mouth stretched wide. He'd imagined resting on his stomach, Steve's hot breath spreading over the back of his neck and a weight bearing down on him in a pleasurable sensation that bordered on painful, a rhythm of skin slapping and hips moving in tandem. And he'd imagined—in careful and vivid detail—how Steve's laboured panting would slow to a reverent stutter, his limbs moving jerkily and without finesse, and how he would be bought to an earth-shattering completion with Bucky's name on his lips.

Pulled head-first out of his furious stream of thoughts, Bucky felt fingers grasp at the open lapel of his jacket, and his own hands slipped around Steve's waist for more stable purchase. Heat pooled low in Bucky's abdomen, spurring him on—quickening his movements. He sought out more of Steve, wanting to feel taste and lick and feel every part of him, to lie under the meandering path of his hands and mouth, to open up at his whim and be subjected to his all-consuming passions.

Bucky surged forward and deepened the kiss, even if it was little awkward between them, both their bodies contorted and twisted in sitting positions. Teeth clinked together as their mouths opened. He angled his head to the side, running his tongue along the seam of Steve's lips, teasing it, enticing it open, and smiling as Steve complied without a moment's hesitation.

Entwined, entangled, they kissed until their lips were kiss-swollen and red, melding together in sloppy motions, muscles aching at the odd position of their side-bent heads. Steve pulled back; grinning as Bucky followed the line of his body instinctively, reaching for him.

"Can we—" he gasped out, gifting Bucky with a swift kiss to tide him over for a moment. "Can we"—another kiss, at the corner of his mouth—"move? Please." Fingers grasped at the base of Bucky's hairline, foreheads pressed flush together and breathing uneven. "My necks killing me."

"Yeah," he replied, his voice surprisingly hoarse.

Straightening to full height, it struck Bucky as a little odd that Steve was a few inches taller than him now, and bigger in size. He missed when Steve was smaller, when he could fit against him like a missing puzzle piece—sliding into place beside him.

"I liked it better when you were smaller," he whispered, sharing the same air as Steve they were so close. Bucky gripped at the sides of Steve's jacket, the fabric stiff under his fingers but the flesh pliable. Steve's hands rested on his neck now, palms curling over him—startling warm on his too-cold skin. Steve's mouth remained open, barely touching Bucky's, wet and waiting and oh so close.

He still couldn't believe he could kiss him now—just lean forward and claim his lips, simple as that.

"Why?" he asked, the smile evident in his voice.

"Because I could've picked you and had your legs around my waist by now."

Steve laughed softly, the action causing his nose to bump against Bucky's cheek. He soon quieted, the amused noise trickling to a low rumble in his chest. He pulled back a scant few inches, so he could look Bucky in the eyes evenly, although he had to look down instead of up now—the backwards height difference doing nothing to ease the flutter of nerves in his stomach.

"Did you really like me back then?" he asked, his voice small and shy.

"Steve," he whispered, chastising the man, grip tightening. Bucky's smile was broad and bright, completely unaffected, acting as a perfect testament to just how easy it was to answer that question. "I didn't just like you back then, I loved you."

"How?" he asked, breathless.

It was Bucky's turn to laugh. "Because you were so _good_ ," he said, "and kind and noble and beautiful." Steve still looked doubtful, like he couldn't quite understand how Bucky had loved the skinny, unremarkable boy he once was. At noticing the pinch between Steve's eyebrows, Bucky continued, "You didn't know what you did to me Steve, whenever you fell asleep on the couch with your head in my lap, or watching you draw someone else."

He sucked in a shaky gasp at Bucky's words, intensity swirling in his gaze. "How could you do that to me?" His voice was barely audible, leaning forward to rest their foreheads together. "How could you make me wait this long, thinking that you would never want to be with me in that way?"

"Steve—"

"Ever since you walked across that road, Buck." He said. Bucky knew what he was talking about—that moment, that day—as it was still fresh in his mind, a snapshot of time he never wished to forget. "When I looked over my shoulder and saw you standing there, looking so scared with your arm outstretched, watching over me before I even knew you were there."

"Steve—"

"I'm here, Bucky."

Bucky was surprised when Steve pushed him back into the steel pillar roughly, crushing their lips together in a more demanding fusing of mouths and tongues. He slipped his leg between Bucky's open thighs—an action that was so decidedly un-Steve that Bucky feelings were torn between shock and excitement—and drew it upwards to offer some blessed friction. Steve ground his hips against Bucky's, eliciting a drawn-out moan from him as a spike of arousal burned straight through him, sending his nerves ending alight. And then Steve's hand was straying downwards, down Bucky's neck and shoulder and arm and—

 _Wrong arm._

"Buck?" Steve broke away, his voice laced with trepidation. He looked at the rounded curve of a bicep his hand rested on below, pressing into the metal limb beneath as if testing his inklings. "Bucky?" he asked again, worried.

"It's nothing," he dismissed it flippantly. He didn't want to talk about this now—not with Steve's leg thick and warm between his thighs and the taste of him still on his lips. Bucky leaned in to continue their thorough making out session, but Steve was adamant.

"It's more than that, Bucky, I haven't seen you in ten years and I—" He stopped mid-tangent, preoccupied as his attentions focused solely on tugging Bucky's jacket off and seeing what laid in wait beneath. Soon his jacket was hanging off one shoulder limply, and Bucky had to clench his jaw and brace himself for Steve's reaction.

"Bucky," Steve whispered again, fingers reaching out to trace the metallic outline of his limb. It weighed the same, even looked the same under a coat or jacket, but he would never get used to seeing the metal appendage in the place of his lost arm, a ghost of a phantom limb taunting him. "What happened?"

"Bad fall." It was almost true, but he didn't want to go into details—not yet, anyway.

Steve held Bucky's metal hand in his own, and before looking up at him in a silent bid for permission, he leaned down to kiss the centre of his cold, smooth palm. He almost forgot how to breathe at witnessing Steve accept that part of him so readily, without cringing at the sight of it or eyes flashing in a thinly veiled form of disgust. When Steve straightened to kiss Bucky, his metal fingers fanned out over his cheek, holding him close.

Steve forgot how furious and demanding he'd been before—spurred on by a revelation that was thirteen years coming—and instead opted for a gentler approach, one he thought was more worthy of Bucky. Their bodies—the source of each other's fantasies for so, so long—were fused at every point possible, legs to legs and hips to hips and chest to chest. Warmth was generated between hot points of contact, a steady weight of flesh and mouths which coaxed the flame of desire to life. Their kiss was edged with a little desperation, a need for something they had been deprived off—each other.

The touch of eager mouths—slow and wet but firm—moved against each other, searching touches—growing bolder with the minute, attuned to the intake of breath or tensing of muscles—roamed over shoulders and down the line of an abdomen and smooth columns of a neck, and bare skin—just fingers and faces—not doing nearly enough to satisfy their wants.

"Bucky?" Steve asked quietly, languidly sucking at Bucky's lower lip as if he was a dessert plucked from God's finest dessert tray. "Do you know what you said about wanting to pick me up so I could wrap my legs around you?"

He nodded absently, kissing Steve deeply, pouring everything he had into it.

"Well, is this any better?" Steve's voice was bashful and meek, but the intent behind the words was not—because soon he had reached down to grip the back of Bucky's thighs and pull him up. His back pressed flush to the pillar and hips slotted together, Bucky's legs instinctively wound around Steve's firm, toned waist. He was finally eye-level with the beautiful blond man who had been the focal point of his dreams for over the past decade, and so he had to smile—Bucky couldn't look at Steve and not smile.

Moving his hips in an experimental roll, Bucky grinned at the moan he drew from Steve's mouth, his face contorted in an expression of blissful pleasure. Steve reciprocated the action until he elicited the same reaction, all hard lines and strong edges and defined muscle grinding against Bucky—eyes squeezed shut and gasps stuttered, tethered to this world only by the firm press of fingertips.

And it didn't matter that it was bordering on freezing out here, behind the bleachers.

It didn't even matter that the pair were wrapped up in each other at a high school reunion, thirteen years too late and a substantial amount of time lost between them.

Because Bucky was finally able to lean over and close the space between them, and kiss Steve Rogers.

"Yeah," Bucky admitted, "this is better."


End file.
